


Breathless

by JocelynTorrent



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Implied Incest, Kissing, Romance, Sexual Tension, introspective, mentions of past rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16349315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JocelynTorrent/pseuds/JocelynTorrent
Summary: Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was known for her soft tones, her subtle husk, and that ever-tempered smile. A reserved woman with a straight spine and carefully crafted words. Her eyes spoke far more than her lips ever did. But rarely did anyone dare look that far.The harlot, Charlotte Wells, had.





	Breathless

The night her brother had lain with her. The night that he took her innocence, Isabella had screamed. She screamed through the bludgeoning and the pain, sobbed through a hard-pressed hand against her mouth. Screamed until she could scream no more He left her there, breathless and bleeding, with a smug, “Good girl.”

The door closed behind him. Some unknown time later, a servant called her for dinner. She made no mention of her ripped gown, the bite marks on her exposed breasts, the blood on the sheets. Isabella swallowed, tasted copper, and vowed that she would never scream again. For what good did it do?

She kept her promise. Lady Isabella Fitzwilliam was known for her soft tones, her subtle husk, and that ever-tempered smile. A reserved woman with a straight spine and carefully crafted words. Her eyes spoke far more than her lips ever did. But rarely did anyone dare look that far.

The harlot, Charlotte Wells, had.

Isabella’s breaths had always troubled her. Since that night, she seemed incapable of catching her breath. It happened most in her brother’s presence. His palm, however gentle, seared upon her skin wherever it lay. And it lay often.

The air would leave the room, heartbeat hammering in her ears as she tried to find the strength to fight like she had not those many years ago. The same happened when Charlotte Wells entered her parlour.

Charlotte’s brusque accent had latched to her ears, spread warmth there, and travelled inward to replay in her mind. But her eyes were soft, searching, curious. Isabella felt her throat dry from the aged wine in the parlour and found her strength in the cracked words she uttered. She expected defiance. Her brother’s world was an eye for an eye and for every rejection she gave to him she lost yet another part of herself. Charlotte Wells owed her nothing and could damn her for everything.

She should have let her walk out of the room with her apology hanging in the air. But before she left Isabella began to miss her presence. And that modicum of human decency had left her ravenous for more. Her life was a world of mirrors and games and lies and false smiles. Charlotte was the reality she wished to cling to. And she did.

Her brother would often say that you could always smell a harlot. He would press his nose to her bare shoulder and inhale up her neck. She would feel him shudder against her back, be reminded of the scratches he left there, some scarred, and lose her breath again.

Charlotte smelled clean. A luxury the lady could never afford. Often, Charlotte would press close and beneath the embedded perfumes and powders, Isabella could smell her. Soft and delicate, a salve for her ever aching throat as they walked through the pleasure gardens.

The gifted rose hung between silk-gloved fingers. Isabella watched those fingers twirl it, mindful of thorns, the petals blooming wider with the breeze. She’d watched Charlotte smell it, watched the petals brush her lips, and finished off her wine in an attempt to look away.

The wine had touched her head, made her bold, perhaps, or stupid. But Charlotte’s grip on her arm was confident, leading her easily through the grounds. Her touch seeped through the material of her gowns and burned where it lay. Not like her brother’s, but a smoulder, one the lady longed to ignite.

She could see the rise and fall of Charlotte’s chest, her breasts billowing over the corset. Lost in thought, Charlotte brought the petals across her chest. Isabella watched the gooseflesh rise and wondered if her own silk-gloved fingers would do the same. If she could tint the edges of her bosom red with her touch and make Charlotte bloom beneath her.

Fear kept her at bay. She knew how it felt to be bought, used, abused. She would not give Charlotte the same. A single ring from her finger could buy her a fortnight with the woman in front of her. She’d paid an earring just to chat.

The look in Charlotte’s eyes made her breath catch again as she dared nearer. Yes, there was something else she wanted. Something that was stolen from her and thus something she would never dare pay for.

Charlotte pressed against her, lips against her cheek. Isabella felt her body seize, heard her brother’s voice in her ear. But her cheek ignited, sent flickers of delight down her spine and muted her brother. The moment gone as soon as it began, she turned quickly to try and catch those lips as they retreated.

She’d missed them. But Charlotte had seen her attempt, and the slow, arrogant smile looked too much like her brother’s. Especially after a moment of weakness. She kept her spine straight, no matter how many times they’d tried to break it and departed with what was left of her dignity.

Haunted by the harlot, Charlotte rarely left her thoughts. She imagined the girl at her breakfast table, changing in front of her mirror, lying in her bed. Her brother had a way of being right even when he was wrong, and the feel of Charlotte’s lips never faded from her skin.

More than that, she had proven herself an ally. And for the very first time, it seemed that Isabella had not made a mistake in her trust.

One ally does not undo twenty years of torture. Isabella knew that better than anyone. She still hitched at her brother’s touch, still humiliated herself at every occasion, still waited for the day when her world would sway from its fragile precipice and fall.

“Do you know,” her Harcourt started, his mouth still full of fig, “I don’t actually mind if you’re one of those sapphists.”

Isabella set her fork down, rarely ever hungry, and folded her hands into her lap. She fixed her brother with her usual doe-eyed look that tended to quell his ire.

“No?” She added a touch of boredom to her tone.

He shook his head and took another bite. “Because then,” he sniffed, swallowing half of his mouthful, “I’d be the only man you will ever lay with.”

He sneered, parts of fig in his teeth. Isabella suffered herself another minute before excusing herself, lest her supper rise back up.

“You’re strong,” Charlotte had told her, thumb pressed into the lady’s bicep. “Stronger than you know.”

Isabella could no longer stand to be in her brother’s presence for the evening. She sought solace in Charlotte. And Charlotte gave it freely. The hand on her bicep slid up and down, soothing the shakes she could not get rid of.

Isabella shook her head once, eyes downcast. “Any strength in me is mimicry of you.”

Charlotte scoffed and pressed closer. Their chests touched, and Isabella loathed her height in this moment. Charlotte’s own heaving chest rested under her bosom. Material kept them apart from what she burned for.

“Not everyone could endure what you do for as long as you have.”

Isabella could not meet her eyes. Even in her most trusted friend it was too difficult to accept these compliments without searching for the bile underneath. She could not afford to let her guard down in this life, no matter how much the call of Charlotte’s mouth dared her to. No matter how much her heart hammered to be free, breaths forcing themselves from her chest as if they were her last.

She felt a thumb under her chin, lifting her eyes from the floor. For such a smaller woman, Charlotte held impressive command over the lady. She dipped her head to find Isabella’s eyes, searching for that defiance she’d witnessed so many times.

“Please,” breathed out with a sob. Isabella’s chest heaved at the word, body on the verge of breaking completely.

“Please what?”

She felt Charlotte’s breath warm and wet near her skin.

“Please,” the lady took a single breath of composure, “please do what I cannot.”

Dark brows furrowed. Isabella felt herself teetering on that fragile precipice again, her legs shaking with the weight of her secrets. Her nails dug into the wall behind her, searching for purchase as she braced herself for retaliation. It was the only defence she knew, to deflect the blow and keep herself alive for one more day.

Charlotte’s face softened, lips parting. The thumb beneath Isabella’s chin moved in gentle circles. Charlotte did not pull, for she knew Isabella would have resisted. Instead, the smaller woman rose up on her toes to even their heights.

Her lips brushed against the lady’s. Not a kiss, but a clarification. Isabella exhaled, nails aching against the wood grain. She could smell the wine on her tongue, the soap of her bath, that ever-present perfume. She could feel the warmth of her chest against her bosom.

“Isabella.”

Spoken like prayer before their lips met. It was not a collision but an impression. The ghost of Charlotte’s lips, waiting for Isabella’s command. The taller woman whimpered. When her body trembled and threatened to give, Charlotte’s hands found her waist. They slotted around her sides, above her hips, keeping her steady, grounded against the wall behind her and firmly on her precipice.

Isabella took a deep breath, felt it fill her, and opened her mouth.

 


End file.
